


the gold in my palm was mistaken for sand

by slashmania



Series: accumulating names like others make friends [1]
Category: Inception (2010), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Anthropomorphic personifications need love too, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, M/M, sandman au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmania/pseuds/slashmania
Summary: Arthur didn't intend for Eames to find out this way. For as long as he'd been Arthur, he'd been the best point man in dreamshare- but he was more than mortal. He was one of the Endless, the King of Dreams and Nightmares.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: This is unedited, barely thought out or outlined, but I don't care. I had this idea several years ago after watching an interview of JGL's where he talked about maybe starring in a movie based off of the Sandman comics.

Eames had Arthur pressed against his side as the warmth and life seeped out of the point man, spreading the bloodstain on Eames's shirt as they made their escape from the mark's men and the client's hired guns; as they had woken from the dream to find themselves in the middle of being double-crossed by their client, the sudden arrival of the mark's armed men had given them the extra couple of seconds they needed to detach their IV lines and reach for their own weapons.

It was a rare and almost beautiful thing, Eames had thought at the time, watching as a man from each group sized each other up, glanced at the two dream criminals they'd found and then nodded in agreement as they then turned to face Arthur and Eames together, as a team. It was so quick and efficient a decision Eames was certain that Arthur would have approved of it in that pragmatic way of his if he hadn't been busy snapping the PASIV shut and raising his gun to fire at their new best friends before they had a chance to shoot first.

That didn't stop them from eventually taking a few shots as Arthur and Eames ran for the door.

Forced to take cover as Arthur shot at them, the dream workers had just enough of a head start to get out the door and on the streets while the others were regrouping. But then they were following...

It didn't take Eames long to notice the blood, or the way that Arthur was lagging- first stumbling, then dropping his gun, and finally needing Eames's support to keep on his feet and remain moving. The forger held the remaining gun while Arthur clutched the PASIV in a white-knuckle grip, leaning heavily on Eames's side as Eames manhandled him with one arm snaked around the point man's waist, Arthur's arm draped over his shoulders.

If one ignored the blood or the way they were desperately shuffling down an alleyway in the middle of the night, at first glance they could be mistaken for a pair of drunks. Well, maybe not Eames...

"I don't-" Arthur bit back a curse, forcing himself to breathe deeper despite the gunshot wound. Eames shot a worried glance at the place Arthur had been hit, noticing that the bleeding hadn't slowed; that Arthur had grown pale, glassy eyed, and weak. _"_ _I don't see her."_

Eames tore his attention away from Arthur's wound, needing to keep his ears open for the sounds of following footsteps, to get ready to fight back with Arthur quietly slumped against a wall, out of the way and mostly safe.

He needed to keep moving.

So he asked Arthur, half-interested in what he was saying but truly needing to hear his voice- it didn't matter if the man was speaking nonsense so long as he continued to draw breath and live.

"Who don't you see, darling?"

"Sister," Arthur said, answering shortly, having to take a deeper breath immediately after speaking.

Eames grunted and pulled Arthur behind some trashcans, hiding for now so they could catch their breath. He'd sworn that he could hear someone following a ways off.

"You have a sister," Eames asked, not exactly questioning how Arthur expected to see her in an alley in Brazil in the dead of night.

"Got three..." The point man paused, thinking about what he'd just said before shaking his head.

"Which one did you hope to see?" Eames asked softly, hearing the sounds of footsteps, already getting into position to shoot from behind their improvised shelter. "She nice? Travels a lot?"

Arthur snorted, seeming to find what Eames said to be pretty funny. The forger tried to take heart in that- if Arthur had enough life in him to laugh at Eames's attempts at conversation, he might survive the night.

"She's very nice. Travels a lot for work." That amused him even more, he just barely stopped himself from laughing a little. Then he had to force his free hand against his mouth so he could stifle the coughing fit he'd triggered. Eames pretended not to notice the blood on the point man's palm.

"She's not afraid to tell me when I'm being stupid. Doesn't let me feel sorry for myself."

Eames was sighting down the barrel of his gun, watching as the pursuing group of men came closer. They had yet to see where they were hiding, but would hear them if they continued talking like this.

"She threw bread at me," Arthur pronounced solemnly. "I was being an ass."

Naturally, that was when they were spotted.

"There they are!" one called to the others.

Eames wasn't going to wait for them to get any closer. He took a shot, then another; firing with surgical precision, counting in his head the number of bullets he'd have left in the clip and then the number of men who didn't yell, cry out, or beg as they hit the ground. He'd not have enough to finish the lot of them.

He was in the middle of coming up with Plan B when Arthur, still nestled close to Eames, whispered, "I'm sorry."

Eames didn't risk looking over at Arthur. He didn't want to believe that this ' _I'm sorry'_ was something Arthur was saying before dying. He'd never really thought about what Arthur would say before dying. He didn't like to consider those things, but sometimes when the thought crossed his mind, he figured that Arthur's last words would involve some sort of criticism of the person who engineered his death.

"No saying sorry, darling," Eames said, waiting before shooting down another man. "We don't say sorry. Remember what we said before this started, this 'you and me; no Cobb involved, god no' thing?"

"Otherwise known as a relationship."

Eames wasn't going to argue with him. He had two bullets left and was waiting to see which of his remaining buddies would be the lucky winners- and after that there would still two or three more people lurking among the trash and bodies in the alley, ready to take down the forger with the empty clip and the dying point man.

"I'm not arguing with you on that."

"And I'm still telling you that I'm sorry."

Eames chanced it. He looked over at Arthur for a moment, just a moment. He was stunned.

Arthur, still resting against the wall, his skin so very pale and his breathing uneven, was focusing on Eames. His eyes, previously glassy, actually seemed darker than their usual brown- as Eames looked into them, he could have sworn that the point man's eyes were nothing more than the flash of starlight in the darkness of space...

Reaching into his coat pocket, Arthur pulled a worn pouch from inside and carefully undid the drawstrings. When Arthur next spoke there was a strange resonance to his voice. 

 _"_ _You might not understand what's about to happen, Eames,"_ Arthur began as he opened the pouch and plucked out, of all things, a handful of _sand_. " _I never intended for things to go this far."_

He held up the handful of sand and said, " _I'll show them terror in a handful of dust. Close your eyes, Mr. Eames."_

Eames didn't. He stared at the point man with the glowing eyes and watched as Arthur blew on the handful of sand, watched as the grains, the dust, flew off of his palm and swirled around the point man and out towards their remaining attackers.

This inexplicably powerful storm of sand dissipated rather quickly after flowing around Eames, not getting into his eyes or even getting caught in his clothing.

Then it was gone. And Arthur was gone too.

Unsteady, Eames leaned forwards and looked at the space Arthur once occupied. All signs of his being there were gone. Then he got to his feet and found that the men who had followed after them, the one's who had survived despite the bullets that struck them or the one's who'd gotten lucky and weren't hit at all, were sleeping in the alley.

They fit in well with the bodies of the dead.

Eames looked at the only thing left in the spot where Arthur had sat. He picked up the PASIV, shocked to feel this residual sensation of heat, of warmth from Arthur's hand on the case's handle.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Eames asked himself, not sure if he was ever going to get an answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: This is going to become a series. Why not? That and I have lots of little fics planned and would rather do multiple stories rather than a heap of chapters. That and I'd like to have the chance to throw linear narrative out the window if I really wanted to. Maybe.
> 
> The title comes from "The Sinking Night" by AFI. If I find any more errors I'll fix them later.

Eames managed to find his way to a safe house- no matter how confused, how rattled. No matter how it stung to get there without the point man, Eames made it to one of the many places he and Arthur had kept for just this sort of hiccup during a job. A nice little quiet spot to lay low after a client wasn't satisfied with the work, or the mark woke up and demanded to have them found so he (or she) could take their pound of flesh.

Arriving at the nearest location, a house in the middle of nowhere on a piece of land legally owned by a fictional man, Eames did everything he would have done before, just without Arthur at his side or following in his wake- checking the perimeters, examining the fancy security features that only Arthur knew how to meddle with without setting off an alarm, entering the safe house and checking that no window was left unlatched, that the doors still had smoothly functioning deadbolts that closed without a even a whisper, because that was how Arthur liked it.

Doing all those things, Eames was profoundly aware of how alone he was. When it was over with, checking the surrounding areas, cautiously looking at the security system, and checking the doors and windows to make sure that none had been tampered with and that he'd not have unwanted guests ready to greet him once he was at his most defenseless (either sleeping in his bed or unarmed in the bath) Eames let himself relax a little and go over the bizarre events of his failed job.

"Where did you go, Arthur?" Eames couldn't help but ask himself as he retreated to the room they once occupied together, though the last time they'd been in this house was a year ago, it being one of the first that they took on together as partners. In the past they would have separated and retreated to a spot, a hideaway, that was meant for one. It was harder to track them if they took their own escape routes, went to ground alone, resurfaced when it was safer to find each other and new jobs later on.

It was hard for Eames to pinpoint the moment that changed. It sort of fell together neatly and neither questioned it. After the inception of Robert Fischer, free from looking after Cobb, Arthur and Eames fell into step and took jobs together, made money together, had fun together. Eames remembered when they agreed that they had something special, something that might not exactly have a name yet but was pretty damn nice.

It lead to them not saying sorry, not lying, not taking jobs without the other along for the ride. Sharing contacts, sharing guns, sharing beds and safe houses.

It was so simple. It hadn't taken any great planning or sacrifice for either of them. Getting into a relationship had been as easy as breathing. The phrase _falling in love_ implied that it was something accidental, that their relationship was something they tripped into and went with in order to save face. Because the best dream criminals don't just fall in love. How stupid would that be? That would be like painting targets on their backs! Who wanted to become like Dominic and Mal Cobb?

Sitting on their shared bed, Eames looked in the open closet and half-wished that this was one of their more regularly used hideaways. If it was there might be a shirt or two for Eames, a suit for Arthur. Running away from the site of the extraction meant that the forger hadn't bothered to circle back to the hotel they'd rented a room in, not wanting to get shot in the head because he wanted to rescue their suitcases.

Not having something clean to change into wasn't the worst thing, Eames reflected as he looked at the sole item hanging in the closet. It was a suit jacket belonging to Arthur. If he were sentimental enough, Eames would stand and walk the short distance to the closet, pluck the article of clothing from the hanger and take it back to the bed. He held onto the thought of doing that just to feel the fabric between his fingers and remember when Arthur wore it last, why he'd not taken it with him when they'd left. From what he could see from his spot on the bed, the jacket was torn.

Now he remembered. They'd taken a taxi and as Arthur had stepped out, his jacket got caught on something and ripped the along the back. The look on Arthur's face as he half-turned on the spot, noticing the way the jacket flapped, looking over at Eames and catching the first shocked then amused expression on Eames's face as he had waited to get out of the taxi.

When they'd gotten to this safe house, Arthur, who had long since stripped out of the damaged jacket and carried it over his arm for the rest of the journey, plucked at the tear as if he could somehow force the threads to join and become whole. Knowing it was a lost cause, Arthur had hung the jacket up and left it behind, despite his mentioning a weaver who might be able to repair the damage.

Eames did stand up then, walking to the closet and then shutting it so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore. He wasn't even trying to imagine what going to each safe house would be like, especially if he was just going to clear out various odds and ends that had belonged to Arthur.

Eames sat back down on the bed, listening to the creaking of the springs in the mattress, wondering why he wasn't more affected by this. He loved Arthur, surely he did. They were great companions, they were wonderful partners, they shared their work and their lives and everything had been going so nicely!

And yet, no tears. No anger. No fits of throwing things around or swearing he'd avenge Arthur!

Maybe they weren't like Cobb and Mal, then. Maybe their love was different from theirs- he'd like to think that he and Arthur were more grounded. That they wouldn't purposely drive each other mad. Even if that was starting to concern Eames a bit- what if that was the only reasonable explanation for what happened?

Because he'd seen the glowing of Arthur's eyes and that strange pouch full of sand. Because Eames loved Arthur, but he wasn't grieving.

And maybe Arthur wasn't actually _dead_.

Eames sighed and laid back on the bed, looking at the ceiling, wondering what he should do next. Who should he talk to? Should he even mention what happened to Cobb, one of Arthur's closest friends?

He turned his head and spotted the PASIV on the chair next to the dresser; the only thing he'd been able to take with him as he left the alley, carefully stepping around the sleeping or dead men and then running away.

Eames considered getting up again and setting the thing up- weighing the pros and cons of dreaming with the PASIV or curling up in bed by himself, as dreamless as many long-time PASIV users become over time.

Finally Eames decided against the PASIV. He didn't need to run into a projection of Arthur. He didn't need to have an awkward conversation with the dreamed up point man, maybe asking him why he couldn't cry over his death. Or whatever it was because even though his lifeless body hadn't been left in the alley with the dreamers and the dead, he still vanished without a trace. Maybe as good as dead or just as absent from everything but Eames's memory.

He could have reached over to the bedside table and shut off the lamp he'd turned on when he entered the room, but didn't really care. He closed his eyes and after he stretched out on the bed, ignoring the surplus of space he had to work with now, turning over and reaching for a pillow and eventually falling asleep.

* * *

Eames was walking, his footsteps echoing in the vast halls he found himself in. He was clutching Arthur's torn jacket to his chest- the material was warm, as if Arthur had only just taken it off. Curious, Eames lifted the material of the jacket to his nose and took a delicate sniff, catching the scent of Arthur's cologne.

The familiar scent was enough of an emotional punch to the gut that Eames dropped the jacket back down, still holding it in his hands as he continued to walk.

Soon, he heard the sound of footsteps, just behind himself, a little to the left. The forger swallowed and waited for the person following him to get closer, to draw even and walk at his side. He didn't want to turn his head and see who it was. Then he gave in and looked.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, continuing to walk with Eames, hands in his pockets.

"You've already apologized, darling." Eames continued to look ahead, not sure what to do with the jacket in his hands. He freed up one hand and reached for his totem. He fingered the poker chip, testing the weight as it sat in his pocket. Arthur watched him as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Yes, you're dreaming, Eames."

"I don't dream naturally anymore."

"I pulled you in," Arthur said shortly. "You fell asleep and I let you into my realm. For all the times you've truly dreamed and visited the Dreaming or manipulated it as you've worked as a forger, dreaming with the PASIV, I've been here."

Eames was tempted to look at this perfect projection of the point man and say _But you've been with me for a bit. You were stuck with Cobb for even longer, and if I trust what you've said before, you knew the Cobbs before Mal went mad._

He didn't say that. He stopped walking and fixed this Arthur with a stare.

"I don't know what you are. I don't know what happened in that alley, either."

"My time as Arthur was over," this Arthur look-alike said. "I did all that I could about that PASIV device. It interrupted what I'd originally created Arthur for..."

"And what was that?"

Arthur looked slightly uncomfortable but gave Eames direct eye contact. Eames looked into Arthur's eyes, waiting to see that flash of light, the star in the darkness. His eyes stayed the warm and comforting brown that Eames loved best.

"This is my castle, the Dreaming is my kingdom," Arthur began. "I'm the King of Dreams, Prince of Stories, the Lord Shaper. Though I go by many names, I prefer Dream. Morpheus was what my staff called the last who died."

Before Eames could ask, Arthur waved one hand and rephrased himself. "Let me use something familiar as an example. This is me putting an idea into your head," Arthur said, launching into the explanation he'd given to Saito before he and Cobb were hired, something Eames asked Arthur to explain to him several times. "Don't think of elephants."

Eames nodded and waited, ready to say in response to Arthur's next question of 'What are you thinking about?' with 'Well, elephants.'

Arthur didn't do that. Instead he said, "Now instead, imagine that I said to kill the elephant I made you think of. Can you do that?"

Eames shook his head, thoughtful. "No. You can't kill an idea!"

Arthur smiled. "What's a dream if not an idea brought to life? There are nightmares I've had to destroy. There are worlds I've had to tear apart because of the damages they would cause the Dreaming. But I'm getting away from my point. Me and my siblings? We are the Endless. We outlive gods and goddesses. We remain in existence for the people we serve and protect. We rely on them as much as they rely on us. We will never die...but like an idea, we can change. During my wake, it was said that they were mourning the passing of a point of view." Arthur pressed one hand against his chest. "And that was how I came to be. I was the replacement for the King of Dreams-  gestated in a dream, Morpheus laid claim to me. I was once a child named Daniel Hall, but not anymore."

Eames considered this, looking at Arthur as if he could see the signs of him being more powerful than a god, of having ever been just a child. He blinked and thought of what Arthur had said before.

"You've been playing as a human," Eames said. "You tried to live the life you didn't get a chance to finish. You tried to grow up."

Arthur shrugged. "My sister could argue that Daniel Hall was going to die a toddler anyways. I've picked up where Morpheus left off, he-"

Eames cut him off for just a second. "It's so strange to hear you speak in the third person about the previous aspect of yourself."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I wanted..." He was searching for words, still trying to explain. "I'm not sure what I wanted. My sister does something similar. For one day each century she takes the form of a human so she can better understand the lives she takes, the price of mortality."

This would have been the moment where Eames said 'Oh, your sister is Death? Is that why you thought you were going to see her in the alley?' but didn't. He just let Arthur continue to talk. If this was going to be the last time he heard his point man, he may as well savor it.

Arthur or Dream but definitely not Daniel, looked at Eames and said, "We can keep walking if you like? I know that this isn't going to be easy for you. I surprised you with the news. I disappeared without saying anything that could even pass for an explanation..."

"You saved me from those men," Eames said. "You put the one's I missed to sleep." Eames licked his lips and tried to fight past that confusing feeling he'd been working against since Arthur disappeared. "I love Arthur," Eames said to the Dream King's face, watching as one of the Endless wearing the form of Arthur like a costume pulled an excellent poker face. It revealed nothing to Eames. "But Arthur isn't real. I love an idea," Eames added, thoughtful. "He's a forgery- _you're_ as much of a forger as I am. You created a forgery of a young man, maybe based on what you thought you might have been had things not happened the way they did. Am I right?"

Hesitantly, Arthur nodded. "I've been at this awhile. In my most recent incarnation I've been working on accepting change. Being a better anthropomorphic personification, you could say. And then I created Arthur and gave living like a mortal a try...until I met Mal and Cobb. Until I discovered the PASIV. Then things got more and more complicated. I couldn't ignore what was happening because it effected the Dreaming. I couldn't abandon Cobb after Mal because..." The Dream King petered off, breaking eye contact with Eames and taking a deep breath.

"I would like to try and explain. I'd like to tell you the truth."

Eames smiled. "Prince of Stories. You're going to tell me stories as we walk through the castle?"

Arthur briefly blushed and nodded, an endearingly awkward call-back to how Arthur would truly react to Eames poking around at things he'd said or done, embarrassing him and reminding him that he was human. Eames would have to amend that last thought. The Dream King wasn't human. And yet, there was this feeling of familiarity as he looked at this entity masquerading as his partner. It was more than just physical appearance. It was what was underneath, too.

"Drop your forgery," Eames said, smiling over this interesting thing they now had in common. "And tell me about yourself."

It didn't take long. One moment, Arthur stood there listening to Eames talk, and the next, there was a man with ivory pale skin and dark eyes, his white hair much more rebellious than Arthur's before an application of hair gel, and white clothing- robes decorated with images of flowers, the material done in varying shades of white and cream, lending warmth to otherwise bleached out, monochromatic attire. He was taller than Arthur had been, not baby faced like the point man, but Eames got this impression that Arthur, the point man, was lurking beneath the surface. That he wasn't gone completely, that he wasn't divided from Dream's being as sharply as the lord of this realm believed.

Dream didn't appear to be nervous. Not really. He stood up straight and didn't look away from Eames's assessing gaze.

"Hello, forger. Hello, Mr. Eames. It's a pleasure to meet you." Then he nodded and said in a short introduction. "I'm Dream and this is my castle. We are in the heart of the Dreaming. You are free to stay as long as you like. My staff is giving us privacy, time to get better acquainted. If you'd like to meet them later, it may be arranged."

Eames smiled. "How many lovers do you bring here?"

Dream didn't blush. His skin looked too pale to blush and Eames wasn't even sure if the personification had blood in his veins...

"Some. I'll be the first to admit that I've not had the best history in regards to relationships. There was a time when I had too much pride, was unforgiving, and resistant to change. But I always take my responsibilities seriously and I will always see that everything is done correctly, that every task I take on is finished."

"Even when you're not a point man," Eames said, unable to stop himself from grinning at the incarnation of the King of Dreams, "you still act like a point man."

This earned Eames a smile from Dream.

"Walk with me through the castle and I'll tell you stories, Mr. Eames."

So they did, walking side by side as if it was the most natural thing in the world. For Eames it was as simple as breathing.


End file.
